The water called much louder when I was younger. Was it the wooden raft my grandfather made that oozed a fine sap every season? It was difficult to wash from our hands and nearly impossible to remove from our bathing suits? Maybe the lack of water shoes back then and how I could cut my feet on the mysterious treasures hiding in the sand was enticing. There were those dark black inner tubes whose scalding hot surfaces were so irresistible. Yes, the plan of attack was to flop one side down on the water and then flip the tube over to then lay atop the barely cooled off side - of course this had to be done while trying to avoid being impaled by the inflation valve. Was it the thrill of not knowing when the wooden dock might throw a sliver? So many possibilities.
There was no hot water out at camp back then, let alone a shower, so sometimes a bar of soap, tube of Prell and the lake were how hygiene happened. It. Was. Fantastic. Every bit of it, every summer. What happened? The seaweed is no more gross now than it ever was. Is there really just too much thought, on my part, being put into something that should require little to no thought? Should content always be satisfying enough? What happened to that girl who always ended up in the water due to enthusiasm or clumsiness? This week brought frustrations large and small, and I just wanted to feel something different. As soon as my husband came home, I told him I wanted to go jump in the lake. (Camp is only two miles from our house - literally.) He offered to take some pictures...as one does when approached with such a greeting. I figured there was just one thing I needed, aside from a towel.
